Betty Crocker never stepped foot
In these halls of mirrored kindness
With images of black roots faded
Losing grip and slipping away
Of white beyond snowy mountains.
A mind full, and butcher knife sharp
For the next fifteen minutes
Then it is drawn away to yellow sand
And copper stones smooth
Where water flows kettle wet outside
Marked by the last breath of morning dew
Remembering well a recipe from sixty years ago
Then forget the name mentioned
From same wrinkled and dry lips
Merely twenty minutes before hand.
Perplexed by the turnabout of computer chips
Wondering if they might taste good
In a rich sauce of onion and sour cream,
But I am still stuck on the name
Never imagining it would ever be wiped
From such memory like a blank page.
Once keeper of jams, and sweet pickles
With pressure cooker steaming,
Whistles, high pitched in unharmonious spurts
Now swim in memories mixed,
Swirling around in clockwise motion
Where the long ago dead dance
With those dying of twenty five years;
Yet I am bound by the mischief
Which caused the sounds of my name
To linger above high winds
Far away from the quietness in her voice.
Far away from the muscle in her tongue.
Far away from the thought unbridled,
And no longer kept suburban grass restrained;
Watching as wildflowers spread in numbers
Overgrowing across her beautiful mind.